


When you Say Nothing at All

by SuperbiousEucatastrophe



Series: IronStrange oneshots [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 07:29:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperbiousEucatastrophe/pseuds/SuperbiousEucatastrophe
Summary: Tony's hands are shaking. Stephen can't know. Ever.





	When you Say Nothing at All

Tony didn’t wake up screaming. Nowadays, he very rarely did. 

He didn’t scream, he didn’t kick, he didn’t sweat, he didn’t do anything that would alarm the sleeping man next to him. And he was glad his subconscious spared him of waking Stephen and explaining to the man what was going on. He was sure he'd die of shame. 

If he’d stand up now he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore. He would sit at his boyfriend's kitchen table and construct something in his sketchbook. A weapon he would never build, a new system for his repulsors, a revolutionary efficient way of saving energy in New York. Anything that would distract his mind, really. And then Stephen would wake up eventually because the other side of the mattress was cold and then he would sigh because he would think Tony was doing this on purpose. He’d think he was a workaholic who didn’t want to sleep in the first place. 

It couldn’t be further from the truth. 

But he wouldn’t tell him about the nightmares, the scenes flashing violently in the back of his head if he wanted or not. It was nothing he wanted to talk about with anyone, least of all Stephen. 

As soon as he closed his eyes, he was there again. Cold. Dark. Damp. He could hear screams that were his own, he could hear groans and attempts of begging although he remembered he had never spoken those humiliating words. They had kicked him, they had hit him over and over, sometimes with a pipe, sometimes with bare fists. And if they hadn’t needed him, they’d have killed him just for fun. 

They had threatened him, over and over. Threatened to cut his tongue out, to burn his entire body. And one day, when he had been particularly mouthy, they had put both of his wrists on the cool metal surface and one of them had carried an axe they had from god knows where. The words Yinsen translated were still echoing in his mind as if they had been spoken only a day ago. “If you can’t work without keeping your mouth shut, maybe you shouldn’t work at all.”

They had mused about how much fun it’d be to return him without his precious hands, without the possibility of building anything for the rest of his life. It had made him shiver, his hands had shaken uncontrollably although they were held in place steadily. Even now, that he thought about it, his hands were shaking. 

He prayed Stephen wouldn’t wake up. He would think he’d made fun of him with it. Stephen was the one with the shaking hands, Stephen was the one with the injured hands. They hadn’t injured him, he had been able to save his skin in time with the promise of not being mouthy again (a miracle he had managed to keep it). 

In the end, he stood and went outside, to the balcony. He was glancing over Bleecker Street. New York was the City that never sleeps yet it was peaceful on a Thursday at 03.48 AM. Some cars were driving past him. He saw a man walking down the street. Not a single soul followed for a while. He was glad for the cold winter breeze, for the cold that seemed to calm his entire body. 

Everything but his hands. 

Desperately, he tried to stop them from trembling. Stephen would notice he wasn’t in bed soon and if he’d see the shaking hands he would undoubtedly be pissed. Although Tony was generally known as a self-absorbed piece of shit, he really cared about Stephen’s opinion of him. And his fear of abandonment was something they had spoken about often lately. He just couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help thinking about how much better Stephen could do. He worked too much, he barely slept, not to mention that the former nickname Merchant of Death already indicated he was not someone you would want to introduce your parents to.

The grip on the balustrade tightened. If he would hold onto it firmly enough, the shivering would stop and he would be able to finally go back to back to pretend yet again none of this had happened. Like almost every night. 

He closed his eyes for a brief moment and concentrated on the sounds of New York City, on the smells and other things that normally didn’t interest him. 

“I come here often, too.”

Tony turned around, putting his hands behind his back was a reflex. 

Stephen was standing in the doorframe, still in his boxers although it was chilly outside. The hickey he had given his lover hours ago was very visible, even in the dim moonlight. 

“You know how I am. Work, work, work.” It was so much easier fighting because of his work ethics again that to confess what was really wrong with him.

"You could have woken me up."

"I'm fine." He had no idea how often he'd said those words already. They had lost his meaning long before Afghanistan. It was like a mantra; like he was not only telling it to Stephen but also to himself. Ridiculous. He knew he wasn't fine. It didn't mean he had to whine about it, though. He could work just fine without telling everyone a sob story no one wanted to hear. He wasn't the type for those anyway. 

Not that Stephen would know all that. He prepared for a speech about feelings, about how it was important to seek help and talk in a partnership. it was bullshit. Tony could talk. he could talk for hours without saying anything of importance. But this? This was nothing he wanted to talk about. Stephen would insist on doing so. On reliving all of this again. He was so sure of that.

Stephen had other plans, however. He gently reached behind Tony’s back and gripped his shivering hand tightly. No insults, no sighs or groans, no fight. Not a single word, actually. He leaned forward to kiss the back of his hand. Then he put it back on the balustrade, together with his own. His other hand was touching the white sandstone as well. 

Tony glanced at his slightly illuminated face. It was calm, understanding. Like he knew everything he couldn't talk about already. It didn’t take long until he was leaning his head against the wizard’s shoulder whose hands were trembling as well. 

And together they stared at the restless city without needing explanations from their partner. And somehow, it mended both of their hearts. Tony realized then that maybe words weren't necessary. That maybe, he wasn't as alone as he made himself believe sometimes.


End file.
